


The Mage and the Smith

by CucumbersInGold



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Stephen Strange is a Badass, Stephen's a mage, Tony Stark is a good guy, Tony's a smith, can i make it any more obvious, fighting undead, hooray!!!, it's the AU no one asked for!!!, they'll fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CucumbersInGold/pseuds/CucumbersInGold
Summary: While the Dragonborn dicks around in the background, up-and-coming mage Stephen Strange just wants to rise in the ranks at the College of Winterhold. When Tony Stark, Solitude smith extraordinaire, arrives at the College's doorstep, fate begins to unravel and push the two men together. What is this new wave of undead? Does it spell the end of Skyrim? The end of Tamriel? Or can Stephen and Tony accept the hand that destiny has dealt them and fight the forces of darkness as they threaten to overwhelm the land?





	The Mage and the Smith

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing a lot of Skyrim to destress lately, and this popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. I'm a HUGE Elder Scrolls nerd, so it might be too detailed at points, or I might not explain enough. If you don't like Skyrim lore, then you won't like this! Also, Skyrim lets you marry whoever you want, so get ready for some raging homosexuals.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy! 
> 
> [here's my tumblr](http://klimt-and-cumberbatch.tumblr.com/)

“I swear by the Eight, the next time someone requests that gods-awful Dragonborn song at dinner, I’m going to light their pants on fire.”

An icy wind nipped at the mage’s heels as the large wooden door to the Arcaneum of the College swung shut, chilling the room for a moment before the glowing braziers flared to life, bringing warmth back to the ancient stones of the castle. Stephen Strange let out a grunt as he let loose the stack of spell books in his arms, a cloud of dust bursting directly into the resident librarian’s face.

“That bad, huh?” Wong asked, uninterested as he began to sort through the pile. 

Stephen groaned, putting his hands over his eyes, neat little scars criss-crossing over his fingers as he pressed them against his sockets, pulling away when some of the ache in his head dissipated. “If they’d hired a real bard, and not just picked the one of us who claims to know how to sing, then it’d be tolerable. But you can only listen to Mordo strain for those high notes before you just - “

“I know, Stephen. I can hear him from down here,” Wong said dryly. The Breton set aside the last few tomes, folding his arms over his chest as he looked back up at his apprentice. “Is that all of them?”

Stephen paused, thinking. “I… May have held onto a few conjuration books. Just,” he interjected quickly, “until I get my summoned familiars right. My wolves still look more like foxes than they should.”

Wong rolled his eyes. Imperials. Desperate to prove themselves in foreign lands, and Stephen Strange was no exception to the rule. “I’ve seen your wolves. They’re wolves.”

Stephen squinted at Wong, his lips pinching off to one side of his face. “Uh, no. Their snouts are too - narrow. I’ve got to get them just right, or they’ll be useless in combat.”

“Stephen. They are apparitional wolves. They’re terrifying.”

“To common folk, yes,” Stephen agreed, “but I’m fighting necromancers, and vampires, and undead! It has to be properly menacing, or it won’t get the job done. Now, then. I’d like to check out a few more - “

“Finish your conjuration research,” Wong dismissed. “Then we'll discuss loaning out other texts. Arcaneum’s closed.”

“The hours are until - “

“Closed.”

An overpowering force pushed the Imperial out the door and into the stairwell, and he barely avoided having his nose crushed when the massive slab of wood slammed shut in his face. Stephen heaved a sigh, considering arguing the point before giving up. When Wong was in a mood, he was in a mood, and there was no wrangling extra spell books when he was in a mood.

Stephen decided to return to his quarters and practice for a bit again, his fingers flexing subconsciously as he made his way up the stairs towards the courtyard. He paused in the Hall of Elements, coming to gaze into the pool of magic essence for just a moment. He loved it at the College. At times, he missed his old life in the Imperial City. He missed waking in the morning to the White-Gold tower just outside of his window, and the busy street markets that wound through the tiny alleys and secret passageways of the city. He missed the prestige he’d held as a court mage - until his accident.

His hands twinged briefly as his mind passed over the painful memories. He quickly pushed them aside - a conflicted heart led to weaker magic. And to get these wolves perfectly right, he needed to focus.

He passed the Arch-Mage’s quarters on his way out the front door, hearing a clatter of glass bottles as the all-beloved Dragonborn returned to the College to once more raid the potions stores. Because of course that’s the only time she stopped by. 

He rolled his eyes and passed outside into the fierce wind and cold, wrapping his robes more tightly around himself as he crossed to the Hall of Attainment. Only a bit longer, and he’d be a proper mage, and maybe taken on as faculty. If not, it’d be back to Cyrodill with him. He’d take up a research role, maybe travel for a bit. He’d have to see where life left him, when he graduated. When his time at the College was done.

A terrifying prospect, to a degree. Being out on his own, like the many ascendant necromancers and destruction students he’d found in the wilderness, camped out around Standing Stones, waiting for unwary passerby to find their gold and supplies. He wanted to be a mage with a position - in a court, somewhere, perhaps. Just not in Skyrim.

“Too damned cold,” he muttered, his breath misting in the air before being whipped away by the ever-present blizzard. He shook himself and headed for the dormitory entrance, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Warmth at last. 

Now for the wolves.

————

“Too damned hot.”

Tony looked up as his latest customer approached his forge - the newest Thane to the Jarl of Markarth, traveled all the way to Solitude to utilize the same blacksmith that the High King himself preferred. 

“It can get a bit warm around the fire,” he conceded, offering a smile. He set down his hammer and unwrapped his apron, tossing it onto his nearby workbench before going to his rear table to fetch the sword he’d been working on for the Thane. “You had the - ebony greatsword. I’ve got it right here for you.”

“And how much is that?” the Thane asked, digging in his purse to fish out the proper amount of gold.

“That’ll be - fourteen hundred gold.”

“F - fourteen hundred?” His Thane-ness asked, eyes widening in disbelief. “That’s a bit - pricey, don’t you think?”

“Do I see an amulet of Zenithar around your neck?” Tony asked, folding his arms over his chest, flexing just slightly - a little intimidation never hurt to ensure his payment. “I said fourteen hundred. You like my work? You pay for it.”

The Thane glowered at Tony, handing over a hefty pouch of coin. “If you insist. I think you’d make enough money serving the High King that you’d be able to cut those of us on a - lower social standing a bit of a break.”

“Ebony’s expensive, friend,” Tony said shortly. “Thanks for your patronage. Bye, now.”

Tony watched the Thane stalk off with his posse, reaching for his apron and going back to finishing the horseshoes that he’d been working on. As he beat the metal under his care into submission, he couldn’t help but grind his teeth, his gut roiling with disgust and dislike.

He was just like the Thane, at one point. The son of a Jarl, a gifted blacksmith, rising faster than Whiterun could handle. When his parents were killed in a vampire attack on Dragonsreach, and Tony was next in line for the throne, he’d panicked. He’d run away in the middle of the night, sneaking into the back of a carriage and disappearing in the furthest reach of Skyrim that he could find.

Solitude was a big enough city that one could get lost should it be necessary. Enough gold passed through the Thieves’ Guild in Riften, and Tony wasn’t Howard the Younger, next in line for the throne of Whiterun. He was Antony Stark, a gifted blacksmith serving the High King in near anonymity. He didn’t visit court, he didn’t stay too long with the nobles - he did his job, he delivered the product, and he went back to his humble home.

Needless to say, he didn’t get out much. Which is why he was more than excited for the trip to Winterhold. The town was a dump, he knew that much from the history books and the words of other travelers as they bled through Solitude’s front gates. But the delivery of staffs and staves that he had bundled up and waiting for shipment was a promise of adventure and new faces. He didn’t particularly care for mages - magic tended to freak him out most of the time - but getting Solitude out of his lungs and meeting people who didn’t know his face and didn’t care was quite the prospect.

He worked the rest of the day, closing down the forge and packing up his supplies before making his way down towards the edge of town.

“Safe travels, Stark,” came the gruff voice of the main gate watchman. “Make sure you survive the journey. I need my axe sharpened sooner rather than later.”

“Aw, you do care,” Tony answered, giving the man a mock salute. “Don’t you worry. You’ll have my whetstone at your disposal before you can say ‘horker’. You be good, now,” he called as he passed through the massive red gates. “No more shakedowns! I hear about another one, and I might just dull every sword that passes through your hands!”

There wasn’t an answer before the gates slammed closed, leaving Tony alone on the dark paved road down towards the stables.

He took a deep breath, adjusted the pack over his shoulder, and started down the path.

“Winterhold, here I come.”

————

As Stephen slept that night in his bed, he tossed and turned, his body busy as his mind was flooded with dreams and visions. Over and over, as he had for so many nights now, he saw hordes of undead coming up from the Midden underneath the college, armed with spells and ancient Nord swords, their eyes glowing menacingly as they descended on the people of Winterhold. He saw the Dragonborn fleeing the city, and he saw himself as the last sentinel between the army of draugr and the College, defending it with his very lifeforce.

And he kept seeing a pair of eyes - wide and dark with knowledge and a terrible burden, quick with an intelligence that Stephen hadn’t seen in another person in years. When he saw the eyes, he felt his entire soul lurch and rattle the bars of the cage of his body, yearning to reach across time and space and touch this other person, whoever they were. 

He finally jolted awake, sitting up in his bed, drenched in sweat and trembling badly. He stood and downed the potion sitting on his bedside table, sighing in relief as he felt the magic seep into his bloodstream and bring his hands back to a manageable level of shakes. He flopped back down into bed, rubbing his eyes harshly before forcing himself to his feet.

He dressed in his robes once more, flexing his hands and casting a few quick warm-up spells - simple things of restoration magic, his weakened hands glowing a soft gold as he felt heat pulsing under his skin, soothing the bruises and bumps from the day previous. He carried a flame in his palm as he moved about his chambers collecting his boots and his supplies, and then played around with a touch of frost at his fingertips as he ate his breakfast. Feeling awake and recharged, Stephen headed towards the Hall of Elements, preparing for his lectures for the day.

On the way across the courtyard, he heard Wanda standing at the entrance to the College, giving a visitor a hard time.

“You have to conjure a Fire Atronach to get in. Did you not understand me the first time?”

“Look, lady,” the stranger said hotly, adjusting the package over his shoulder as the weight strained against him, “I have staffs that your Arch-Mage ordered for all of you to have. So can you please just let me by?”

“The Arch-Mage isn’t here,” Wanda spat back. “She’s run off after some dragon outside of Riften. Until she gets back - “

“Wanda,” Stephen said mildly as he crossed over to where she was, adjusting the hold on his books, “I believe that Wong was looking for you. Something about a late fee?”

Wanda turned and glared at Stephen over her shoulder, her eyes flashing red. “I haven’t checked out a book from the Arcaneum in - “

“He was really very insistent,” Stephen pressed, coming to take her post. “Go on. I’ll handle the strangers for a bit before my lecture. Go, hurry, you know how he gets!”

After another moment of hesitation, and a poisonous look passed to both the men before her, Wanda turned and stalked off towards the Hall of Elements, her hands clenched tightly in glowing, crackling fists.

“Apologies,” Stephen began, turning to face the stranger.

“It’s fine,” he answered, looking back up at the mage.

Stephen nearly dropped his books. He managed to keep his composure, though his heart was suddenly racing and his skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It was the eyes. The eyes he’d seen in his dreams for weeks on end, now. They were standing in front of him, and they were attached to a very ornery, irritated man. A smith, by the looks of his hands and his arms. Muscled, wiry. And that gaze… 

“Excuse me? Hello? Arch-Mage, please? Or whoever in Ysmir’s name can take these thrice-damned things off my hands?”

“Oh, yes, uh - right,” Stephen said quickly, hoping he could pass the flush in his cheeks off on the cold. “Yes, right. Right this way.”

As Stephen turned and led the unknown smith into the main part of the College, he felt dread settle into his bones, heavy and cold. The arrival of this man could only mean one thing. 

Destiny was waiting just around the corner. Fate was staying in the shadows, prepared to jump as soon as his back was turned. The undead he saw, the scores of them… 

“Is there someone in this school with their head on straight? Or is it just bad attitudes and mages lost in their own minds?”

Stephen turned again, his mouth agape as he took in the other man once more. “I - beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been standing in the same spot for nearly a minute, now. I asked for directions, to be pointed in the way that I need to drop off my delivery, get paid, and go home. And you’re taking your sweet time about it.”

Stephen bristled. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“Stark,” Tony said flatly. “Tony Stark.”

“Tony.” Stephen slipped easily back into his cold mage persona, turning on his heel and proceeding to the Arcaneum. “Wong will take those staves off of your hands. Do try not to piss him off - the rest of us need to borrow books, and he tends to get a little selfish when he’s upset.”

He shoved the man into the Arcaneum and headed back to the lecture halls, huffing slightly. He knew that he and this smith were entwined - their fates were one and the same, or at the very least crossed paths for whatever was coming next.

The idea terrified him. That he could have prophetic dreams like that, untapped visions that only came to him under the cover of night. He swore as he took his seat in the Conjuration lecture. 

He knew he should’ve bought that scrying orb.

————

“Another satisfied Stark customer,” Tony muttered as he sat at the table nearest the hearth in the miserable inn in the miserable city of Winterhold. He sipped from his tankard as he rested to warm his bones, spending the night here before he headed back for Solitude the next day. His pockets were fat with coin, and his belly was filled with fine mead. 

But he was distracted. Too distracted to enjoy it.

He couldn’t get the mage from earlier out of his head. He looked at him like he was the second coming of Akatosh - admiration and fear swam in his crystal-clear eyes as he drank him in. Tony couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He’d never been looked at like that before. To some, he was the Merchant of Death - Solitude’s finest smith, nearly the finest smith in all of Skyrim. His weapons had ended more lives than he could possibly fathom. He’d gotten plenty of dirty looks over his legacy, his prices.

But from a complete stranger, and a mage at that, someone who didn’t trouble himself with the common worlds problems?

It was oddly chilling.

He swore as someone strode into the inn and let in the blustery cold air again, glaring daggers at the woman who came swaggering in and helping herself to whatever was nearest to her hands.

“Dragonborn,” some greeted politely. 

Arch-Mage. Dragonborn. Harbinger. Guildmaster. The wood elf went by many titles.

Most preferred bastard, when she wasn’t in the room.

Tony finished his mead and stood, deciding to get off to bed before the Dragonborn decided to take that, too. He closed the door of his rented room behind him, undressing and storing his gold somewhere relatively safe before letting the exhaustion in his bones drag him under.

He woke not much later to the smell of smoke and the sounds of screams.

He was out of his bed and armored in a flash, his enchanted daggers clutched in his hands as he raced out of the old wooden walls of the Frozen Hearth.

What he saw turned his bowels to water.

Five or six draugr had taken up residence on the main street in town, and were hacking and slashing at guards and citizens with little discretion. Tony looked towards the College, hoping to see some sort of magic, some sort of assistance - and he was disappointed.

He saw one mage standing at the end of the bridge, frozen with indecision. His hands were dim and silent, and at this distance through the snow, Tony couldn’t tell if he was turning back or pressing forward.

Oh well. The old-fashioned way, then.

Tony pressed a small switch on the backs of his daggers, the energy cores he’d welded into their hilts beginning to spin and glow a bright blue. The blades became imbued with raw magical energy, crackling and hissing as it tried to break the bonds of the steel. But Tony was a gifted smith, and the runes in the metal of the daggers were strong. The magic stayed put, ready to be used at his disposal.

And use it he did.

He approached the draugr nearest him and shoved his blades between its ribs. The magic branched out and filled the old bones with unimaginable power. The draugr growled and spoke in an ancient tongue as it began to turn to dust. Tony yanked the daggers free as it collapsed into a pile of ash. 

And so it went. He helped the guards with three others, reducing each draugr to powder before he moved on to the next. When they cleared the street, he saw two draugrs swiftly making their way towards the ancient bridge. 

“Damn. Those old bones move quick,” he breathed.

And then he saw the mage. The one from earlier. 

His hands were surrounded by intricate rings of bright orange magicks, his body held aloft by some sort of artifact draped around his shoulders. There was a flash of movement as the draugrs pressed forward. Suddenly, a burst of energy. Tony felt the stones beneath his feet pulse with it. The mage threw cords of raw magic into the draugrs, the tail ends wrapping around ribs and femurs. With a pull of his arms, the mage brought them tumbling down, the glow leaving their eyes as their bodies were torn apart. He made it look easy. He made slaying undead Nordic dragon worshippers look easy.

It was sort of hot.

Tony made his way to the edge of the bridge, sheathing his daggers as the magic faded away. 

“What the hell was that?” he demanded immediately. “Some sort of experiment of yours gone wrong? Did you do this?”

“No!” the mage roared at once, clearly distraught. “No, this - this is something - bigger. Worse. There are dark forces at work, and the Midden - after the Eye incident - you need to come with me.”

“Uh, no,” Tony said, shaking his head. “I need to go back to Solitude. I’m needed there. I’ve got my forge, and my customers, and - “

But the mage’s hand was already around his wrist, and he was already being dragged towards the College. “You don’t have a choice. You and I? We are bound by fate. It was not a delivery that brought you here, Stark. The gods have laid our paths together - the moment you came here, I knew that doom was on the horizon. Now that it is here, you and I must come together to fight it. I just - I know it sounds - just come with me.”

As the massive doors closed behind them for the second time in as many days, Tony began to reflect on what the hell had just happened. He’d just been saving lives. Using his weapons as they were intended. And now he had a mouthy mage dragging him back into a castle he’d already had enough of, talking some nonsense about fate and darkness and doom.

He was just a simple smith. That’s all.

What had he gotten himself into?


End file.
